


Viva la Vida

by kateberthld



Category: Ghostbusters (2016)
Genre: Alternate Universe, F/F, the tags would give the story away tbh idk, this is derived from a real story that i've heard about months ago, this'll be more about what's going on in holtz' head more than anything really, tw: homicide
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-04-21
Updated: 2017-04-21
Packaged: 2018-10-22 00:44:58
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,250
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10686294
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kateberthld/pseuds/kateberthld
Summary: "Heaven is my judge, not I for love and duty,But seeming so for my peculiar end.For when my outward action doth demonstrateThe native act and figure of my heartIn compliment extern, ’tis not long afterBut I will wear my heart upon my sleeveFor daws to peck at. I am not what I am."- Iago, Othello: I:i





	Viva la Vida

 

In the spring of 2016, the CSU Division of the NYPD discovered charred bodies of Sarah Island, Phillip McAlister, and Tony Smith are found within the same thirty kilometer radius away from each other offering an explanation for the three deaths was found within a detailed internet blog written by an unknown individual.

 

* * *

 

**POSTED ON MARCH 26, 2016**

For the past few months, I've been 'living' as Catherine Oliver from Long Island. I stole various profile pictures from an Italian named Michaela Parri. 'Likes' filled my page as I listed out my attributes-- Travelling, SNL, booze, Panic! at the Disco, casual misuse of my engineering degree... Nothing that impressive, but the crowd seemed to like it.

My 'About Me' bubble read:

_Hey! This is Cath. Born on December 6th, raised in the city that never sleeps (it's the reason why I used to keep my parents up at night. To live up to that at the young age of a few weeks old.) I'm 5'7 tall with green eyes and dark brown hair. Like a female version of Harry Styles. Girls say I'm a good singer too. Ya dig?_

I'm 'In a relationship' with a Nelle Lee from Columbus, Ohio. In all of Nelle's pics, her head is poised slightly to her right, showing off the left side of her boy-cut and putting her neck tattoo in display. Last winter, I sent her an unsolicited message and we've been chatting ever since. Our conversation thread started like this:

 

\--February 5, 2016--

 

1:32 am

_**Catherine Oliver** _

Oh my god, are you the one and only  _Harper Lee?_

 

_**Nelle Lee** _

omg what

 

_**Catherine Oliver** _

How To Kill a Mockingbird? 

 

3:22 am

_**Nelle Lee** _

Oh.

Funny.

What would a dead person be doing here? lol

made me laugh tho. thnx

 

5:28 am

_**Catherine Oliver** _

;)

Can I add you for a bit so I can see your page?

 

\--February 6,2016--

 

10:14 am

_**Catherine Oliver** _

Holy crap, Ghostbusters, karaoke, and  _math?_

A woman after my own heart. wow.

Will you marry me now????

 

10:52 am

_**Nelle Lee** _

Sorry, not available today... Maybe tomorrow?

 

10:54 am

_**Catherine Oliver** _

I'm marrying someone else tomorrow :((( 

Weekend???

 

10:55am

_**Nelle Lee** _

NO!! If you don't marry me tomorrow theN NO NO!!! lmao

 

11:00 am

_**Catherine Oliver** _

Tomorrow it is then! I'm engaged, yay :DDDDD

 

The banter carried on for months. It was fun, sure, but the flirting got deeper than what I have intended. One day, as Nelle's infatuation constantly grew, she crossed the line. The line I knew that was  _inevitable_ to begin with. This afternoon she wrote:

 

\--March 26, 2016--

 

2:43 pm

_**Nelle Lee** _

I'm going to New York next month. Will you take me out for a karaoke night??

 

2:50 pm

_**Nelle Lee** _

Hello?

Are you there???

Cath??

 

The time at the bottom of my laptop screen showed 2:50 pm-- her last message sent hours before.

My hand rests almost weightlessly on the touch pad of my laptop as I scrolled up through the thousands of short messages we exchanged throughout the time we shared. I fiddled with the brass Zippo in my fingers, flicking it open and close. Open. Close. Open. The smell of lighter fluid still lingered in the air from my last use. I sucked a final drag from my cigarette and carelessly dropped the butt into an empty wine bottle by my feet.

I made the conscious decision to never be Catherine again.

Police sirens from outside ring through my apartment. Catherine, who justified me, who gave me the satisfaction of not being a celebrated nuclear engineer, freed me from the figurative prison of my mind to live forever online in a way that flesh and blood could never do. Unless I get into alchemy, and manage to brew a potion for immortality. I drag a finger tip across the touch pad, logged out of Facebook, and the bitter taste of unreality bit and returned to my tongue.

All the city sounds-- the screaming, the horns, motors revving, trucks backing up-- were all back again. God, I want to puke.

I raised another cigarette to my mouth, almost mechanically, and exhaled stale smoke that pushed against a cob web strand hanging aimlessly from the living room ceiling. My apartment was small, and littered with unfinished gadgets on the most random surfaces. Replicas of proton packs displayed carefully on one wall, as if a ghost could barge in and they would magically work. Ahead of me is the kitchen, neater than any other place in my humble abode. Beside the kitchen stretched a narrow hallway leading to two bedrooms and a tiny washroom.

 

_**1\. Catfish** _

_\- Someone who pretends to be someone who they aren't using Facebook or other social media to create false identities, partially to pursue online romances._

_7239 upvotes, 2364 downvotes_

 

For a long time, there wasn't a name for this addiction of mine. Now, they call it "catfishing." Various of documentaries have already been made about it. Various arrests have already been done because of it.

Tha doesn't scare me.

I should be.

Over the years, I've made so many accounts that I couldn't possibly remember them all. There was Eula Earl, an aspiring Broadway star-- Amelia Monet an astronomer who's just been fired from her job as a waitress at the Universal Studios-- Kenneth, a page at NBC-- Caren, a wedding planner. I recognize more of myself in these profiles than I do with myself.

If that's true, then I, somehow, am somebody for myself.

Each account had a girlfriend. They varied, from beanpole to chubby, from shy to chatty, from conservative to bold. Most of them lived far from where I am, but I guess that's just some kind of security reflex I instilled within me.

My foot is numb when it hits the floor. I stood up from my lazy boy, tiptoeing to stretch, and shook out my arms and head, until the feeling of  _living_ came back to my body. Sitting down, I leaned closer to the laptop safely sitting on the coffee table in front of  me. I fought the temptation to create another name-- another person. I have no idea how to connect with other people, I thought.

No real friends, no real relationships in the outside world. 

Not including the people in my lab, of course. Not including my doctor, or the clerk from where I buy my cigarettes. I'm not sure if my creative director from this agency that I used to work  for considers as a real relationship. Even as she moved from agency to agency, her email addresses changed but our method of exchanging creative briefs and ad copy electronically stayed the same. She sometimes emailed me with news that I won some award, sending me printable tickets to a ceremony I would never attend.

Listening to the thump of my neighbors footsteps above, I tried to recall the last time I went outside my apartment and outside into the world where  _things_ happened.

I turned off my laptop. As the screen faded to black, I saw my reflection on the empty screen-- lifeless blonde curls, almost sunken cheeks, eye bags of exhaustion-- stare back at me. There's no one behind those eyes. 

There was just a slight coldness - a feeling of emptiness. That feeling was the only real indication I existed, and I needed more.

 

**COMMENTS**

_**stinkbomb** says..._

               u r not alone : )

         3/26/16, 11:11 pm

**Author's Note:**

> This story gets it's inspiration from a real life murder in 2015. The police haven't quite closed the case yet, having only a series of blog posts and an alias as their trace to the killer (both provided by the killer themselves.) I guess I shouldn't be writing this, but the story is far too peculiar and mind-gasmic for me to ignore.


End file.
